Promises
by polly plummer
Summary: They make promises to one another when things are at their worst because they know they can't have anything more. But it's enough for now. Lisbon/Jane.


**I've only recently properly started watching **_**The Mentalist **_**(where has it been my entire life?) so this is only set over the first two seasons. And therefore I obviously own nothing.**

* * *

It starts with a brush of fingers against an arm, a silent promise made in a motel room in Mexico, _we'll get him, we will_. It's an empty promise, but Jane doesn't mind. It's the first person plural she uses that really gives him comfort. _We'll do it_.

Us.

You and me.

.

He knows what's going to happen a second before it does, enough time to pick up a shotgun and take aim while Hardy shoots a deputy dead. And when Hardy's gun is aimed at Lisbon he doesn't doubt what he's about to do.

Lisbon or Red John. Well, he'll take Lisbon, every time.

He pulls the trigger without a second thought, watches his only lead on Red John bleed out on the dusty ground with only a trace of regret. They'll be others. He knows there will. Still, he can't quite believe he's done it.

She's shaking afterwards, even after the paramedics have taken a look at her; shock, he thinks. He's feeling a bit of that himself. He takes a seat next to her on the steps of the house, neither of them looking at one another.

"You shot him," Lisbon states after a moment, sounding stunned although her gaze remains fixed straight ahead.

"Yes, I did," he says matter-of-factly.

She doesn't ask why he did it, doesn't remind him of what he's done, what he's just lost, and he's oh so grateful. He feels her trembling vibrate through him and without thinking too much about what he's doing, he reaches for her hand and grasps it in his own. Neither of them say anything more but he squeezes her hand once.

_I'd do it again_.

She squeezes back.

_I know_.

.

She thinks she's going crazy, she really does. A dead man and her fingerprints all over the murder weapon, yet her memory is empty. A black hole where Tuesday night should be. She can't recall a thing.

Blackouts aren't good. She knows this. She's seen it before.

She doesn't _want_ to be like her father, but perhaps she's more like him than she's ever admitted to herself before. Blackouts after drinking and a violent streak. What if it's genetic? What if she's the same?

She's so desperate she even lets Jane hypnotize her but it doesn't do a thing to help. Worse, he thinks she did it. She can see the uncertainty in his eyes and it makes her doubt herself because if _he_ doesn't believe in her then how can she possibly believe in herself?

"I always knew you didn't do it," he says confidently afterwards.

"Oh yeah?" She asks, grinning. He's lying, she knows he is.

"Yes. You haven't got it in you. Saint Teresa." He smirks at her.

She rolls her eyes and makes to turn away from him but he stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I'll never doubt you again," he says softly, an assurance.

She looks into his eyes and is surprised to see only truth there. No humor, no jesting. Just truth.

"I know," she tells him.

She believes him.

.

Losing people is something she does well, she thinks bitterly as she pulls the bottle of Scotch from her desk drawer. First her mother, then her father. And now Bosco. Yes, she's practiced at losing people, but _god_, does it hurts because she still hasn't mastered the art of coping with it.

She's careless with her pouring and the whiskey sloshes over the sides of the tumbler and onto her desk in her haste. But it doesn't really matter. This is something else she does well. _Drink_ away her problems. Like father, like daughter.

She doesn't even notice Jane hovering in the darkened doorway of her office, watching her silently, not until he moves forward and touches her shoulder lightly, startling her and making her spill the Scotch over her hand.

"Jane," she says nervously, looking from him to the glass in her hand. Caught red-handed.

"I won't tell," Jane promises with a smile, as if there's anybody to tell who'd care.

She thinks she should offer him a drink too, but he hasn't yet taken his hand off her shoulder and if she pours him a drink then one of them will have to move so she doesn't.

"About what Bosco said to you, in the hospital, before…"

"He made me promise to look after you," he reminds her solemnly and she laughs shakily. _Him_ look after _her_? Sam must've _really_ been desperate to ask Patrick Jane to do _that_.

"I will, you know," he says lightly, in spite of her laughter. "I never break a promise."

She stops laughing at the sincerity of his words and realization of the situation hits her all over again. She looks at him, intending to tell him that he doesn't have to because she can look after herself and anyway, she's _fine_, but his expression makes her stop.

It's a look of understanding, she realizes. It's a look that says, _I understand_. _Red John_ _took something from me too_. She nods once. It's enough.

.

He is locked inside a shipping container with Lisbon. A _shipping container_. He didn't mean for this to happen. It wasn't part of the plan.

And now she looks an awful lot like she might be about to cry and it's all his fault. Everything. The case being thrown out, her suspension, them being locked in this shipping container. For all his flaws he still knows when to admit that he is to blame.

She won't even look at him, that's what gets to him the most. So he makes a joke, calls her grumpy and watches as she reluctantly smiles, allows him to coax her over to the grated window.

He promises her he will rescue her.

He doesn't have a plan.

They still get out.

He waits until much later, when they're in the car heading to the shooting range (she's driving) before he broaches the topic again.

"I meant what I said earlier," he says casually letting his head rest back against the car seat.

"What's that?" She asks distractedly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

He smiles.

"I'll always save you, Lisbon, whether you like it or not."

"I don't need saving," she responds stubbornly, just as she did in the shipping container and he grins. Her cheeks are flushing, just a little, but enough.

"Alright then. Next time I'll pretend I don't see you."

She rolls her eyes and then lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to whack him on his arm. He feigns hurt, rubbing his arm exaggeratedly, but really he's just relieved she has forgiven him. Again.

"So can we talk about how you illegally broke into a psychopathic hitman's apartment and made yourself a cup of _tea_?" She asks, smirking.

He's glad she's ready to joke about it.

"Ah, he didn't drink tea like a civilized person, he drank _coffee_. The poor man's tea."

"Oh shut up."

He looks at her, still smiling and she glances over, gives him a half smile back.

_I promise I'll always save you_, he thinks again and he's sure her smile widens. Just a little.

* * *

**I might end up doing some more later, when I've actually watched more episodes. We'll see.**


End file.
